


Out of Control

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fanart, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, Sherlock is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Fanart for the story, "A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road" by sgam76From chapter 32Spoilers for that chapter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Out of Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621058) by [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76). 



**Story excerpt:**

When John came back to himself fully, he was sitting by the side of the road in chilly, damp grass, an incongruous baby blanket from the boot wrapped around his shoulders and Siger Holmes kneeling in front of him, vigourously rubbing his hands as if attempting to start a fire. In the background Sherlock flitted anxiously from one side of the road to the other, speaking jerkily on the phone and snapping at every response.

Siger suddenly noticed John’s return to, well, if not sanity, then full consciousness. “There you are,” he said softly. “We are all safe, and no harm is done. And help should be here shortly.”

He turned his head to look at his agitated son. “Sherlock,” he called. “Come sit with John while I have a chat with your brother. Shouting at him is not accomplishing anything.”

“It makes me feel better,” Sherlock said sulkily, as he stalked over to sit on the grass beside John, shoving his mobile into his father’s hands as he passed. The detective folded his long limbs carefully, like a well-dressed stick insect.

John found himself on the receiving end of one of Sherlock’s most-comprehensive visual surveys, those ice-pale eyes darting back and forth across John’s face as if expecting some sort of explanation, some revelation that would make the preceding five minutes make sense. That was usually John’s job, after all—to explain human failings, emotional upheavals, to his confused friend. This time, though, John had nothing to offer.

After a perplexed pause, in which the divot between Sherlock’s brows deepened in concern, confusion, or both, he spoke. “Nothing happened, really,” he offered, in a hesitant tone.

John gave a crack of incredulous laughter that held very little true amusement. “ _That’s_ what you’re going with?” he said. “I damn near kill us all, and ‘nothing happened’?”

Sherlock stiffened, his cheeks blooming a dull red. “I simply meant that it wasn’t…that no one was hurt, and whatever may have been intended didn’t come to pass,” he said defensively. “I did not mean to imply that this was not of any import, or that it was anything less than traumatic.”

“No, I…” John stammered, then took a deep breath despite his still-chattering teeth. “I know you’re trying to help, all right? But this is just, just…” he trailed off, and waved a hand weakly to encompass the whole mess.

“Fucked up?” Sherlock asked, and John swiveled his head to look at him, startled— _not_ a term Sherlock normally used. Sherlock looked a little abashed. “I was using the vernacular,” he said. “It seemed appropriate, under the circumstances.”

And John, despite himself, gave a small, real laugh. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “I’d say so.”


End file.
